


Collapsing Star

by Cloverheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John Dies, Johnlock Angst, Oneshot, Post Reichenbach oneshot, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, The Fall - Freeform, johnlock if you squint, lots of metaphors, stars and moons, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 07:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15383691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloverheart/pseuds/Cloverheart
Summary: -Post-Reichenbach oneshot-John Watson had never thought he would one day hate Sherlock's stunningly bright and flaming demeanor, hate the way he could never take his eyes of the man and his astounding abilities.The day the detective jumped, John Watson thought a great many things.He thought a tornado of wild hopeless wishes and a million things crossed his horrified mind.And that day John Watson learned that he could indeed hate it.He learned that when Sherlock dropped like a stone (falling slower than a feather) from the hospital roof.*TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE* (its not graphic but just warning y'all)I wrote this late at night after a rabdom idea, idk guys, hope you like it and excuse any spelling or grammar errors, and also let's pretend like i don't already have another story that I never update running!





	Collapsing Star

Sherlock Holmes had always been the center of everyone's attention. Always the matter at hand, the star, so much that it seemed he simply carried a big spotlight hidden somewhere under the folds his Belstaff wherever he went. The man himself was a mystery and a wonder and he attracted the stares and whispers and marveling as a gruesome wound or a car crash steals your gaze and your mind as it unfolds, terrible and yet you cannot look away because the thing itself contains a sick beauty, a perfect storm. He was certainly a black hole, always being watched and observed and he never hid, but yet he was a right enigma, the man, always able to surprise and astonish every single time, never lost for something to say or do or deduce.   
He was a force of nature, a tornado. Wild and unchained and destructive, yet altogether quite amazing and beautiful to witness.  
And John Watson had always appreciated this about Sherlock, always been content to live comfortably in the silence of the eye of the tornado that was the consulting detective, in the silence of his heart, watching and being amazed every damn time. John Watson had never thought he would one day hate Sherlock's stunningly bright and flaming demeanor, hate the way he could never take his eyes of the man and his astounding abilities.  
The day the detective jumped, John Watson thought a great many things.  
He thought a tornado of wild hopeless wishes and a million things crossed his horrified mind.  
And that day John Watson learned that he could indeed hate it.  
He learned that when Sherlock dropped like a stone (falling slower than a feather) from the hospital roof.  
And in that moment, the army doctor despised Sherlock's pull and his destructive beauty because John could not pull his gaze from the figure in the air with his coat whipping behind him, could not miss a blink of that... that. He watched it all with wide eyes that saw and saw and saw but wished they couldn't, and almost thought it quite fitting, terribly fitting, that even as Sherlock d- as he fell, he was the only one, the only thing in the vast world that mattered to John, that John could really see. He took up the blue-grey sky, he seemed to block it out even with outstretched arms and a single tear, took up the sun in his raven hair like a void and with it the last warmth from John's veins as his blood froze cold. He was everything to the doctor in life and it seemed that all would be damned if he failed to do so in death as well.   
Because he was a star, a collapsing star, lost at last in space and leaving behind a lonely little moon who hoped against all odds that one day, the sun would burn once more.  
After all, that was what John was, wasn't it? A moon.  
Generally lifeless, rocky, cold and dark and alone without his star. And small, overlooked. Moons do not shimmer and burst with fire and fury. No, they are far more lonely, seeming far smaller and far more... forgotten. And John Watson would say that yes, often he was a great many of these things, often he was a moon to Sherlock's great star, but yet, never once would John complain. He didn't mind that his only light was a reflection from the star that overshadowed him. Because Sherlock was his star, his fire who saw something worth saving in the rocky shell of a man or a moon.   
And God, he would give anything to have that back.   
Yes, John Watson had always been one to be overlooked, to seem so small, so useless. And yes, deep down, when he could see the starlight, he was neither of those things by any means. But something about the missing fire on the horizon dimmed him. Emptied him.   
And John caved in.  
It was a lonley sight to see, when he finally broke. When he lost his way in the pitch black and found himself curled up on a certain detectives rich velvet duvet, and yeah he knew it was pathetic, knew he was pining but somehow, the pill bottle grasped in the hand that wasn't shaking made everything seem less important, fuzzy. How much sadder, he almost laughed, was it then that the gun had seemed too powerful, too loud, too full of emotion for this, because he was simply lost in the dark, a little shell seeking relief because really, the solider and the real John Watson had bled out on the pavement with Sherlock Holmes, and he was simply a vessel.  
So when John Watson breathed his last, it was quiet. It was calm, it was hopeless and lonley. He did not blot out the sun, he did not cover the sky, and in fact nobody even noticed at all. He was just a sad, cracked shell on a purple velvet bedspread that made him seem just so small, so alone because he was wrapped up in a sea of it, floating alone in space because his guiding star would never burn again.  
He was lost.  
And as the world faded into a speckled black, he could have sworn he heard the final strains of a soft violin downstairs.


End file.
